


A History of Wine

by contemporarydreamer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemporarydreamer/pseuds/contemporarydreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go back and reclaim their spots on the floor in front of their seats and open their bottle of <i>White Zinfandel</i>. The snow outside is coming to a stop and the lady at the front announces they only have to wait another half hour.  It's the eve of Christmas Eve and Harry was secretly hoping the plane would be delayed another half-day so he wouldn't have to spend the day with his family, but he realizes that's a very grim thought to have and he wouldn't say it out loud if his life depended on it. When he looks over at Zayn, though, it looks like he's thinking the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A History of Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [absolutestyles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutestyles/gifts).



> absolutestyles, I so hope you enjoy this. It took me about three days to write and then the rest of summer to doubt myself about. Either way, it's a lovely prompt, as were your other ones, and hopefully I filled it to your expectations. Hope you like it

Christmas smells like banana pancakes because they’re the first Christmas breakfast Harry ever made for his family. Under normal circumstances, even eight year old Harry would check out a holiday cookbook from the local library and attempt a fancier, more traditional breakfast, but given that the fridge space was reserved for premade South Beach meals, he did what he could with the ingredients he had, which happened to be two eggs and a banana.

That was the first time he felt the beloved “Christmas Spirit”™ that radio announcers and department stores loved to parade around (for £29.99, not including shipping and handling), and boy, was it nice. Frank Sinatra was playing softly from the radio on the counter and coconut oil was sizzling on the pan and the whole kitchen smelled of bananas while his amateur hands whisked eggs in the pristine surroundings of his expensive kitchen. It was happy and hopeful and exciting. It made him proud and nostalgic as he remembered skimming cookbooks before he was at an advanced enough reading level to read them. Everything about cooking appealed to him, even the feeling of raw egg dripping all over his hands.

Reality hit him a few holiday songs later like a rubber band snapping against raw skin when he brought a plate of stacked pancakes (with a piece of melting butter on top like in the pictures, he might add) to his mother and she scolded him for a number of things. Harry can barely remember the details now, but he recalls a sharp, "What the hell?"

He remembers it vividly anyway because it signaled the beginning of a recurring theme in his adolescent life. In fact, his mother had said the very same words to him when he told her he was going to a culinary school in America.

 

***

 

Harry wakes up to a soft tapping on his shoulder.

“Wha? What?” He tries uselessly, lifting his head and blinking the sleep away. He was dreaming of banana pancakes and quite frankly is happy to be awake.

“Hey, sorry,” a soft voice says and Harry opens his eyes and _fuck_. He closes them again. He's not prepared for this. He opens them again and tries a small smile at the hot stranger a seat away from him. His vision swims slightly from the overcaffeination he imposed onto himself hours before as he rights himself and waits for the guy to speak. He looks the stranger over quickly. He's wearing black jeans and a maroon sweater—thick and soft in appearance—under a coat that's now thrown over his chair. There’s a small book in his lap that Harry thinks he recognizes. Harry wants to initiate a conversation of some sort, maybe about the book the guy seems to be reading, but he suddenly can’t recall the names of any of the books he’s ever read.

“What? Are we boarding?” He says instead, clearing his throat from its post-sleep rasp.

“No, the flight’s delayed another four hours. Just wanted to let you know.”

Harry doesn’t mind. He’s not in a hurry to go back to London.

“Oh. Thanks. The snow’s that bad?”

The stranger nods and turns the page in his book as though there's not a possibility of _The Day After Tomorrow_ becoming a true story right before their eyes. “Yeah. They’re calling it the ‘storm of the century.’”

“Seriously?”

“No, I’m just kidding,” the stranger shakes his head with a playful smile and Harry laughs.

He looks out the window at the snow coming down harshly and then back at the stranger, who’s turned his attention fully to his book again. Harry looks down at his lap and discreetly stares at the man from the corner of his eye. His hair looks soft and and dark and he has cheekbones that could land his face a spot in a museum after he’s dead. He'll be an archeological masterpiece. Harry wrinkles his face at his own gruesomeness. He tries to go back to sleep but now that he’s awake he’s hungry, so he pats his pocket for his wallet and stands up.

He pauses momentarily as he tries to think of what to do, heart beating under his shirt at the prospect of flirting with someone he doesn't know in an airport. His fingers clench and unclench by his sides in anxiety.

“Hey,” he says finally. "Um. I’m going to Wendy’s. Do you want something? I can grab it?”

“I can just go with you, if that’s alright. I’ve never had Wendy’s.”

“You haven’t?” Harry asks with a tone of disbelief as though the man’s never seen an episode of _Friends_ , even though Wendy’s is nothing special and had almost given him a heart attack after he ate it everyday for a week because he couldn’t afford anything else. To be perfectly honest with himself, some ingredient in all American fast food chains is probably illegal, but nothing can stop him at this point. “Their chips are the best.”

The guy stands and shrugs, smoothing the creases in his jeans. “Sorry, mate, I’m partial to McDonald’s when it comes to chips. I'm Zayn, by the way."

“Harry.”

Zayn smiles and starts after him.

They walk together and Zayn’s a saint because he fills the silence with conversation while Harry probably wouldn’t have uttered another word.

“So, going to see family?” Zayn asks politely.

“Yeah. Home for the holidays. You?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re not sure?”

Zayn laughs, elaborating. “I mean, I am seeing my family, but separately.”

Harry feels for him, really. “Divorced parents?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Divorced _family_. My sister’s not in the mix.”

Harry understands. He’s barely a part of his family.

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

Zayn shrugs. “No, not really. Works better that way. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah, an older sister, but it’s my mum who’s the problem.”

Zayn looks at him. “Why’s that?”

Harry smiles to himself. “She’s just..." Cold, unrepentant. "A complete workaholic.”

Zayn chuckles. “My parents, too.”

Bonding over problematic parents is Harry’s favourite thing to do. “Yeah? What do they do?”

“Surgeons.”

“Both of them?” Zayn nods. Harry’s never even met a surgeon outside of a hospital. “The doctor life, I see. What about you? Are you in med school?”

Zayn nods in affirmation. “Not exactly but...I basically am. Cornell. Biomedical engineering.”

“Yikes!”

“What?” Zayn turns to look at him and his lip juts out in shock.

“I hear Cornell has the highest suicide rate in the world! Does it really?”

"Where'd you hear that?" Zayn asks, looking concerned.

"Saw it on a gum wrapper."

Zayn’s face relaxes as he grins, nodding. “Oh, yeah. It was over for me about two weeks ago after my semester exam.”

Harry opens his mouth and closes it again.

“I’m actually going to London to attend my own funeral.” Zayn continues and Harry tries for a chuckle but a loud, unabashed laugh rumbles out from his chest instead, warmth spreading through his cheeks as he glances down at his moving feet. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t insult dead people, Harry, it’s rude.” Harry laughs again and Zayn smiles.

“So, what do biomedical engineers do anyway? Study plants?”

Zayn laughs this time. “No, we work on organs. Well, in bachelors you just read textbooks about them, but I’m studying to get my PhD, so I’m working with the real deal.”

“Oh, so you’re just a doctor,” Harry says.

“Uh, no. I manufacture organs.”

“How many have you made so far?”

“All the ones in my body, obviously.” Zayn gestures over his body. “They’re couture.”

Harry giggles again, flushing because he’s known Zayn for six minutes and it’s getting embarrassing. “Jeez, pardon my lack of knowledge.”

They stop in front of the Wendy’s and Zayn tells Harry to get them a table in the back while he orders them chips. Harry considers putting up a fight about who’s paying but Zayn walks off before he can, so he sits down at a small, circular table near the back and Zayn joins him a minute later. It feels like a date, which is stupid because they've known each other for not even ten minutes, but it still makes Harry blush.

“So what do you do?” Zayn asks.

“Oh, I’m a chef,” Harry responds but doesn’t look at Zayn.

“No way!”

“Yeah!”

“You, like, own a restaurant?”

“Well, no.” _So, the Packers…_

“You work in one?”

“Yes!”

“You’re the sous chef?”

“You’re getting warmer…” There’s no way Zayn will guess right.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “You’re a waiter, aren’t you? You work here at Wendy’s!” His lips curve into a challenging smile as he feigns understanding and Harry barks out a laugh.

“Okay, that’s just insulting. I’m a _saucier_.” He says it with a flourish.

“A what?”

“A _saucier_.”

“I’m pretty sure that is not a profession.”

Harry huffs. “Of course it is.”

Zayn puts his elbow on the table and props his face up on his hand. “I have _never_ heard of it.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, neither has my mum. But trust me, it’s a job, because I have it.”

“Well, what do you do?”

“I make sauces, duh.”

Zayn leans back in his chair. His lip twitches at the corner. “Cool.”

“I know it’s not the most esteemed job, but—cool?”

“Yeah, cool. Seems important. A lot of food sucks without sauce. I’d love to make sauces for a living if I didn’t set water on fire every time I tried to cook.”

Harry feels lighter all of a sudden as he falls back into his chair and laughs and says, "That’s impossible, Zayn,” but Zayn just shakes his head.

"It's not, I swear. I’m just _that_ bad in the kitchen. I’d prove it to you if I could.”

“What, care to sneak us into the back of this Wendy’s?”

“I would, mate, but,” Zayn leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper, “the police are already after me for a dangerous case of radioactive toast. I can’t risk it.”

Harry’s cheeks burn as he laughs for the hundredth time. “That’s okay. If it’s any consolation, maths was my worst subject.”

Zayn snorts. “What, I set water on fire and maths was your worst subject? We’re definitely even now.”

“Honestly, maths is a life ruiner. There must be something wrong with you if you like it.”

Zayn shakes his head, smiling. “Maybe. So you just make sauces all day?”

Harry nods. “Yep.”

“All day?”

“Nine to five. Rigorous work.”

“What kind of sauces?”

“For pasta, mostly, so like, tomato, alfredo, vodka.”

“Well what if someone doesn’t order pasta?”

“Then they’re stupid. My sauce is great.”

Zayn smiles. His teeth are so straight. “So I assume you work at one of the biggest restaurants in New York?”

“Yeah...almost.” Not quite.

“Butter?”

Harry barks out a laugh. As if. “Try again.”

“Buddakan?”

“Yeah, I love the pasta at Asian restaurants.”

“Oh,” Zayn chuckles, “so I guess Italian?”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Zayn rubs his chin as if immersed in thought and then says, “Olive Garden?”

Harry’s mouth falls open before forming into a wide smile. “Okay, fuck you for that one.”

“Alright, alright, I give up. Olive Garden is the only Italian restaurant I know.”

“If you can even call it that. Anyway, I work at _Una Storia di Vino_.”

“Pretentious. A History of Wine.”

“You speak Italian?”

“Harry, you don’t have to speak Italian to know what una storia di vino means.”

Harry crosses his arms. “Well how’d you know it was _history_ and not just _story_ —”

He’s interrupted by the employee at the register. “Order thirty-seven? Zayn?” Zayn moves to stand but Harry’s quicker. He says, “Be right back” and flashes a smile before walking to the register. He smiles when he sees Zayn’s also ordered a six-piece chicken nugget basket.

“Knock knock” he says when he walks back to Zayn, who looks up from his phone.

Zayn smiles up at him. “Who’s there?”

“Amelia.”

Zayn makes a face. “Fuck you, Amelia. I told you it’s over.”

“Zayn!” Harry sits down and grumbles. “A meal ya can’t refuse. Anyway, let me pay for something, I feel bad."

“You should," Zayn agrees. "Those five dollars and twenty-one cents drained my bank account.”

“Let me at least pay for the chicken?”

Zayn doesn’t let him. “It took me so long to save all that money, too. Broke my back working for a whole eleven minutes.” Harry laughs and utters out a small thank you, before taking a bite of the chicken.

“Spicy!”

Zayn shrugs. "Brown."

“So, Zayn, biomedical engineering. Do you like your job?” Harry asks and Zayn raises his eyebrows.

“I _wish_ I had a job. My internship, though, yeah. It’s got its perks.”

“Such as?”

“High paychecks.”

Harry laughs loudly and a couple a table over turns to stare at him. To be fair, there are only four tables in the whole Wendy's. “I bet. Is that it?”

“No, no, it has other perks. Not many people can say they’ve held a beating human heart in their hands.”

Harry’s jaw drops to the floor and rolls away. “You have?”

“Of course.”

“The heart still beats when it’s not in the body?”

“Oh, yeah! It’s all very cool. It was all part of our Frankenstein Assessment.”

“You’re kidding.”

Zayn shakes his head, a laugh on his lips. “I am not. We had to build a body out of organs. Developed skin grafts and everything.”

Harry shakes his head, a half-eaten chicken strip dangling from his fingers. “No way, I don’t believe you.”

“I can show you a picture.”

“Show me.”

Zayn says, “Okay” and pulls out his phone and shows Harry a picture of Oprah with a beard and Harry laughs so hard he hits his elbow on the table. “I hate you.”

Zayn, in between wheezes, carefully avoids not knocking all of their food off the table. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he finally says. “My roommate sent it to me a while back and I…” he doesn’t finish, dissolving into more laughter.

Harry shakes his head, feeling lighter than he has in years.

 

***

 

They still have about three hours after they finish eating, so they decide to explore the airport to pass the time, ducking into small shops under the guise of looking for souvenirs for their families. Zayn spots an art store and picks out a graphite drawing of the empire state building for his sister.

“That’s nice,” Harry comments. “She likes art?”

“She’s an artist,” Zayn replies.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, she’s the typical rebellious, rock-loving artist from any tv show.”

“What do your parents think of that?”

Zayn sighs. "They aren’t too keen. That’s why I like to see Waliyha separately.”

“That’s her name? Waliyha?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, I have a picture too.” He shows Harry a picture he has of her smiling in front of a wall of graffiti.

“She’s pretty,” Harry comments idly.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Zayn teases.

Harry laughs. “Don’t worry, I don’t play for that team.”

Zayn smiles for a second and Harry stares at him, a strange feeling starting in the pit of his stomach. _Please…_ , an uninvited voice in his head sounds. Then Zayn takes a quick intake of breath and looks up at Harry, finally, and says, “Good.”

Harry’s stomach flips. “So does it run in the family? I bet you doodle artistic masterpieces on the side.”

“Ha. I wish.”

“No artistic influence?”

“I mean…” Zayn smiles and shakes his head, focusing on browsing the keychains.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re going to laugh.”

“I won’t! Come on, Zayn, I make sauces for a living.”

“Okay. Well. I suppose I like photography.”

“There's nothing embarrassing about that. What do you photograph? People? Landscapes?”

Zayn bites his lip, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “It’s stupid.”

“Oprah with a beard is stupid.”

Zayn snorts, tilting his body away, attention on the ‘I Heart NY’ mugs now. “True.”

Harry puts his hands on Zayn’s shoulders and turns him around so they’re facing each other and Zayn brings up a hand to curl around Harry’s elbow. “It can’t be worse than setting water on fire.”

“Alright, alright. Food.”

“Food?”

Zayn sighs and explains. “I think photographing food is cool.”

Harry lets Zayn go and stares at him.

Zayn flushes. “I know, it makes no sense, I don’t even know why I brought it up. You can just, like, forget I ever said that—”

“So, I’m an aspiring chef and you’re an aspiring food photographer.”

“Not aspiring! I just think it’s cool. I mean, if I were any good at it maybe I could be on, like, _Chopped_ , but–”

“You’re missing the point, Zayn.”

“The—oh.”

Harry gives him an excited smile. “It’s like our goals are directly related. Do you believe in fate?” Zayn looks up at him and his eyes are shining. “Zayn, we could be so rich…”

A laugh escapes Zayn’s lips. “Yeah, you make the sauce and I’ll take a picture and post it on the World Wide Web. It’ll be a hit. We are the next Donald Trump.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Obviously I’m planning ahead. By this time I’ll be a head chef and then you can take pictures of my original masterpieces.”

“Original masterpieces, huh?”

“Yeah. Like Rata _you_ ille. I make the meal, you choose the sauce. Or—”

He’s cut off by Zayn’s abrupt laughter. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s good! My jokes are gold."

“Yeah? Tell me more.”

Harry blinks, stares at Zayn. “Really?”

“Yeah, you’re funny.”

 _Okay_. Harry looks down at the patterned tiles beneath him as he feels himself blush, lips stuck in a shy smile. He takes a moment to breathe because he knows if he tries to speak now he’ll stutter. “Okay,” he finally says, looking up at Zayn, whose face is open and kind and everything that Harry wants. “I’ve been waiting forever to tell this one. What did one ocean say to the other ocean?”

“What.”

Harry holds in a giggle. “Nothing, it just waved.”

Zayn blinks, smiles very briefly, then turns promptly on his heel towards the door to leave. Harry grins and starts after him.

“Wait!” He calls out and runs over to Zayn.

Zayn stops when Harry blocks his path and he holds his hand out. “Hi, I’m Zayn. Nice to meet you.”

Harry throws his head back to laugh. “It wasn’t that bad!”

Zayn furrows his eyebrows like he’s trying to remember a dream. “What wasn’t—I’m sorry, do I know you? I was recently involved in a traumatic accident and am suffering terrible memory loss, so forgive me if we’ve already met.”

Zayn is ridiculous and Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re a dick. I’m very funny.”

“Sure you are.” Zayn looks over Harry’s shoulder at something. “Smoothies?”

Harry nods. “On me. Since I traumatized you and all.”

 

***

 

There was a period of time, lasting about three months, when Harry was fourteen when he thought he could be a professional singer. He formed a band with three of his friends, called it _White Eskimo_ , and sang the first night until his voice was gone.

His neighbors all commented that he had a beautiful voice, that listening to his band perform was the highlight of their weekends. He accepted their compliments with open arms and a slightly embarrassed smile. Realistically speaking, he knew his talent wasn't peerless, but an ambition akin to the one he had when cooking burned in his very lungs and he thought maybe - just maybe, it would be enough.

"I think I have a chance, Gem," he told his sister. "I mean, I'm good, I'm cute, I've got the it factor."

She snorted and said, "Fat chance you'll just _become_ famous out of nowhere. Wait a few years and you'll be able to audition for the X Factor and then we'll see."

As it turned out, his opportunity came much sooner than that. It actually came a month later when he heard a voice on the radio advertising an agent who would be visiting Manchester to recruit talented child actors and singers. He'd heard it before, when it didn't matter to him but now excitement coursed through his veins as he listened to the familiar " _Want to be on shows like Doctor Who or record with stars like Leona Lewis? Now's your chance! Executive producer Bill Cyprus is visiting Manchester this weekend to recruit children ages eight to eighteen. Parents, bring your children to free auditions and watch them soar!_ ". A number "for more information" was provided.

He whipped his head around to look at his mother with big eyes and gripped her arm pleadingly. "Please. Please, mum, please, please, please. Can I please? I know I'll make it and then I'll be famous and it'll be so cool! I'll buy you a big house when I'm rich and we'll all be in paradise! Pleeease, mum, please?"

She grunted, sighed, then said, "It's free, right? Then, when Harry nodded, "Sure, Harry. We'll go on Saturday." Harry could hardly believe his luck.

They went early that Saturday, sun blazing it's heat down in harmony with a gentle breeze that made their insignificant town feel like a tiny paradise. Or a retirement home advertisement. They boarded Anne's car for the half hour drive to Manchester and sat in silence until they reached the building that the woman on the phone had given them the address to. It looked much less expensive than Harry expected—a worn out metal black and only two-storied. They entered and were immediately greeted with a dull grey carpet supporting at least thirty other teenagers seated, waiting to be called.

His mother signed him in at the front desk and he made himself coffee in a white paper cup, feeling about ten years older than his actual age. He certainly was dressed so, in a black t-shirt and blazer with dark blue jeans—the most expensive ones he owned. He had to wait almost an hour before he was called into a room of three official-looking people sitting behind a plastic white table who politely asked him to sing a song of his choice.

Harry wasn't even mildly afraid, had practiced this hundreds of times in front of his mirror. He smiled and thanked them and then sang Stevie Wonder's _Isn't She Lovely_ to the best of his abilities. They stood up and clapped when he finished, one of them coming around the table to pat him on the back.

"You've got great potential, lad. I can tell you now for sure, you're high on our list." It was music to Harry's ears and he recited it verbatim to his mother when she asked a few minutes later as they walked back to the car.

They called him back a week later and formally told him that he'd easily been chosen and to come finalize the deal.

Anne smiled pristinely and was grabbing her bag before the woman on the phone had even finished speaking.

The starting price, they informed Anne at the front desk, was five hundred pounds for an agent. They also had a deluxe deal for a thousand that ensured Harry would be on the radio within two years time. Harry rolled back and forth on his heels and wondered if any producers would fight over him. Anne gave the nice woman a tight smile, hitched her bag up on her shoulder, and said, "Thank you very much. Let's go, Harry."

Harry for the life of him couldn't understand why. "Are we going to pay from home?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. We're not paying," she muttered angrily even though her face was frozen on a pleasant smile.

"What? Why not? They want me!"

"It's a sham, Harry. If you were actually good we wouldn't have to pay a thing."

 _If you were actually good_.

He doesn't blame her as much now, given she was right, but back then it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt—his own mother saying that to him. She was a very logical woman, relied heavily on her right brain. She couldn't possibly have understood how devastating it felt—to have your dream crushed like that and for no reason. He'd tried his hardest and they'd accepted him and he still wasn't good enough, not for her. It stung all the way home, and for weeks afterwards. He left his stupid band and never sang again after that.

 

***

 

Zayn makes a delighted face when he takes the first sip of his _ravishing raspberry_ smoothie and it’s so cute that Harry wants to grab his face and bite his lips. Instead, he gives himself a brainfreeze by downing a third of his _mango madness_ in one go.

Zayn smiles at him and it’s shamelessly fond. Harry feels like he’s overheating despite the icy drink in his hand and the blizzard outside. “Brainfreeze?” he asks, and Harry nods. “Wanna go back?” Harry nods again. Zayn stands still for a moment and Harry holds his breath, waiting. Then, Zayn reaches down and takes Harry’s hand in his and Harry shivers all the way to the ends of his hairs. He has to remind himself to walk as Zayn starts towards the terminal or he’ll trip and then Zayn will let go of his hand and that's the last thing he wants.

He wonders how he looks to strangers, lips bruising in attempt to quell his senseless smile and and cheeks burning in a furious blush. Stupid Zayn and his stupid lips and his dumb humor and his ability to make someone want to kiss the life out of him in barely two hours.

They arrive at the terminal and Zayn sits down in his seat and looks down at their hands.  Harry's about to ask if something's wrong when Zayn says, "Can I kiss you?" and it shocks Harry so much that he just about inhales his uvula, before letting out a breathy, "Yeah." Zayn checks around to make sure they're remotely alone and leans in, but doesn't kiss Harry. Harry feels him sigh on his lips and almost dies from anticipation before he realizes that Zayn’s not making him wait on purpose. "You okay?" He leans back and asks.

"Yeah," Zayn says but shakes his head. Then he adds, "I've never been with a guy" and Harry feels a twinge of despair at the vulnerability in his voice.

"Oh. We don't have to do anything. "

"No, I want to. I like you. I want to kiss you."

"Okay. That's good. I want to kiss you too."

Zayn breathes a sigh of relief as though Harry hadn't made his intentions clear enough by consenting the first time.  Harry knows Zayn won't do anything so he takes charge on his own, taking Zayn's face in his hands before leaning in to touch their lips together. Zayn’s eyes flutter closed and Harry can hear as much as feel his reaction, kissing him gently through his gasp. His lips are soft and slightly chapped and Harry wants to memorize their taste and create a three course meal in their honour. He keeps the kiss soft and slow, not even using his tongue to trace Zayn's lower lip until several seconds in. Zayn's hands fly up to grab onto Harry's elbows when he does as though he's falling and it brings their bodies close enough for Harry to feel Zayn's heart beating furiously through his shirt, and god, he can't even imagine how Zayn feels, kissing a boy for the first time.

Harry had a first kiss with a boy too, of course, but it wasn't like this - some stranger in an airport that made him want to explore his sexuality. He knew very well as a kid that he would be kissing boys in the future. He pushes thoughts of his childhood out of his mind and focuses on Zayn and his exquisite lips.  He puts a hand on the back of Zayn's neck, where warm blood is rushing under his skin, and feels him sigh breathily.  In fact, every breathe Zayn takes feels shaky and uneven and Harry fights the urge to stop kissing him and just press their cheeks together and pet his hair. 

They finally part because Harry doesn't want to come on too strong and it's a great shame because he misses Zayn’s lips immediately. He thinks he'll probably miss them for the rest of his life. Zayn looks up at him with glazed over eyes and Harry smiles slightly. "So. Good?"

Zayn nods. "Good, yeah." He brings his fingers up to brush over his lips as he looks down and the moment feels so personal that Harry looks away and waits for Zayn to say something instead of intruding.

"My parents are like, super religious, so. I could never," Zayn says quietly after a few moments of silence.

Harry knocks his shoulder softly against Zayn's. "Then don't tell them. Be happy without their approval."

Zayn nods. "It's just, not ideal, you know? They pry all the time and I wish I could go to them with good news and not have them hate my choices."

"At least they care though, right?"

Zayn smiles coyly. "What, your parents don't call three times a week?"

Harry snorts. "My mum calls about once a month and every time it's to ask if I've landed a proper job."

Zayn tips his head back and laughs. "Making sauce isn't a real job?"

Harry nudges him. "Shut up, I'll be head chef in no time and you'll come in one day and I'll wow your tongue off."

Zayn chuckles. His hair is trimmed on the sides and the tips of his ears bloom red despite his brown complexion. "Y'already have, babe."

Harry feels a pang in his stomach that reminds him of when he was back in school and had a different hopeless crush every week. He remembers feeling tingly and hot over holding eye contact for too long and blushing over a game of footsie under the lunch table and despite years of training himself to be better, to be careless in New York, he looks at Zayn and he can feel his lips burning and his cheeks reddening so he does the only thing he can think of and grabs Zayn's face for another kiss.

They're both useless, laughing every few seconds until someone a few seats away coughs loudly and obnoxiously in a desperate attempt to let them know their pda is offensive and probably unlawful to some extent. Harry feels bad because he doesn't even like pda. He just likes Zayn, who’s blushing a deep red when they pull away from each other. It makes Harry giggle which makes Zayn giggle and they must sound horribly stupid for having met two hours ago but Harry doesn't care. He wishes he could take Zayn home and make him a proper Christmas meal and kiss him in private so he doesn't have to keep his hands above the waist and his lips above the neck but the crushing reality of the situation is that they live interchangeably in two of the most populated cities in the world and he'll probably never see Zayn again after they board in a couple of hours.

With that in mind, he reaches into the pocket of his carry-on and pulls out a deck of cards. "Know any games?"

 

***

 

They end up sitting on the floor and playing Speed. It's Harry's first time and he's not very good but it's Zayn's hundredth time and he's not very good either so it's not a big deal. He can't believe Harry's never played because apparently his entire childhood was all three of his sisters beating him at it each time they played, which explains why neither of them knows what he's doing. Harry offers to give up and make a house of cards but Zayn jokes that the snow outside will break through the window and knock it down and his fragile heart wouldn't be able to take it. Harry laughs because Zayn is funny and he loves funny people, especially hot funny people. He wishes he could write down everything Zayn's said that's made him laugh on a piece of paper and show it to his mum and convince her that not everything is about working hard and being serious and making money because he met a beautiful stranger in an airport who made him happier than even his best work day has.

But he wouldn't say the last part because she'd say 'that's because you don't have a proper job, dear. Had you gone into business both you _and_ your wallet would be happy'. Sometimes he thinks there's no way to please her unless he sacrifices his soul for an office job and a life of monogamy, which he would gladly do if it was anything like the show The Office. It's not though, he knows.

Most of all, he wishes people would stop personifying wallets because if they did have feelings they probably wouldn't appreciate people stuffing them with dirty paper all the time.

He wonders if Zayn actually likes what he does or if his parents pressured him into it. Either way, he feels sorry for him because engineering is math and math is everything bad in the world served with a side of endless pain. Not to be dramatic.

 

***

 

They play for a while more, then Zayn says "I saw a liquor store over around by the smoothie place. Reckon I should get something for my parents?"

"Do you know what they like?"

"I mean, I know their style of liquor, but I don't know down to the brand and year."

Harry stands. "Well, lucky for you, I do. I work in a restaurant with wine in its name, don't I?"

Zayn smiles and grabs Harry's hand to help himself stand up, although Harry doubts he needs it. "Your mum is totally wrong about your job," he says and doesn't let go of Harry's hand as they walk to the shop even though it's sweating and probably feels disgusting. 

They enter the "liquor store", as Zayn called it, which is actually an "everything" store that happens to have an aisle dedicated to liquor.

Zayn picks up a bottle of gin and inspects it. "It says it's dry. What does that mean?" He looks up at Harry as though it's his fault. "I've never understood. How can it be dry?"

Harry tries not to laugh because it's a perfectly understandable question, but he can't help it, immediately clamping his mouth shut. "Sorry. It just means it's not sweet."

"So what's it called when it's sweet? Wet? Dirty?"

Harry raises his eyebrows in an amused expression. "Using dirty to describe a drink is weird, isn't it? It's when martinis are served with olives and olive juice. Sweet is just sweet, as far as I know."

Zayn leans back against the shelf, smirking. "Keep talking."

Harry tries not to imagine Zayn saying that in a different context. "Um, well, this is just me, but I really like rosés and pink moscatos. Really anything that's pink. Pink alcohols are very light and just slightly sweet, my favourite."

Zayn hums.

"Your parents might like more sophisticated things, though. Like a deep dry red, maybe..." He turns towards the red wines and skims his fingers over a few bottles. A few steps sound behind him and then feels Zayn's chin resting on his shoulder. He shivers.

"That sounds about right." Zayn says and his breath tickles Harry's neck. He lets Zayn know.

"Where, here?" Zayn asks and presses his lips to the side of Harry's neck in the sweetest kiss.  Harry's eyes flutter shut.  Something inside him is melting and he'll need to be ushered off to a hospital if Zayn doesn't stop and then his mum will be mad because he'll have to tell her he doesn't have medical insurance because he can't afford it.

"Zayn, stop, there are people here." He tries and fails to sound firm.

"No one's watching." His hands come to rest on Harry's waist and he kisses Harry's cheek, gentler than Harry's ever felt and he's gone.

"The cameras are."

"Think they're into it?" He kisses Harry's ear.

"Stop or I'll recommend the most expensive bottle."

“Anything you say, babe. I'd do anything you say.”

Harry’s body catches on fire and falls to the floor in a heap of ashes before he tells himself to get a grip and turns around in Zayn’s arms to face him. "You're very brave for someone who's never done anything with a guy before."

Zayn smiles and it's maybe the prettiest smile Harry's ever seen. "Someone recently told me to be happy without anyone's approval."

"That's good," Harry says, giving up, and kisses Zayn as sweetly as he can. Zayn sighs into his mouth when Harry touches his face, stroking his cheeks. Harry feels happy—inexplicably, uncomplicatedly happy. He wants to hold Zayn’s face until the tips of his fingers are numb and he wants kiss Zayn's knuckles and show him how to suck dick and he wants to build a house on the plump part of Zayn’s lower lip and move in with a piglet named Cherub.

Zayn ends up actually buying the most expensive red wine, a _Cabernet Sauvignon_ , because he's a rich asshole and won't let Harry make an actual recommendation without kissing him every few seconds. He also grabs a _White Zinfandel_ because he remembered Harry likes pink beverages and it makes Harry's heart thump wildly against his ribcage like it’s trying to jump out of his chest and and ask Zayn's to join it in a tango.

He takes Zayn by the hand after he picks it out and pulls him into the back of the store where he backs him into a condom shelf and kisses the life and death out of him. He can't imagine wanting something more than this, than kissing Zayn until his lips are useless, than taking everything Zayn has to offer. Zayn's hands flail and he almost drops the paper bag of wines he graciously spent too much money on before deciding to set them down on the shelf behind them and reaching for Harry's cheeks. Harry dips his hands down underneath Zayn's shirt just briefly and ghosts his fingers over the skin of his stomach as Zayn shudders. He won't see it today, or ever, probably, and it's a bitter realization. He imagines it's lighter than the rest of Zayn, doesn't suppose Zayn sunbathes in his free time. Harry briefly envisions the two of them tanning naked in their backyard by their pool when they've both made it and they've got more money than they know how to spend. The thought makes his breath catch and his fingers curl and he has to take a moment to breathe, pulling away from Zayn's lips and resting his forehead on his.

"You okay?" Zayn pets Harry's hair when he does so. It's very gentle and Harry ignores it because he hates feeling emotional over things like these. His knees feel weak.

"Yeah. You?"

Zayn nods and grips Harry's face softly to give him one more slow kiss, smiling into it. "I'm good, yeah."

Harry smiles and doesn't move, instead choosing to lean his weight on Zayn and memorize his scent.

"What?" He asks when he feels Zayn giggle.

"Nothing. I just..." Zayn looks down and his smile grows. "..like you."

Harry's cheeks flush and he feels like he's in primary school. "I liked you first," he combats.

Zayn shakes his head. "Did not. You're a cute sleeper."

 

***

 

Unsurprisingly, Harry's career, love life, and essentially his entire future were set out for him by the time he was seventeen. He would go to America to double major in finance and accounting, have a stable job by twenty-three, and become completely financially independent a year or so later, ideally moving to some suburban neighborhood in Maine, or another one of those states that people forget about.

He sat back and listened to it every time his mother explained it, a painful pounding in his head by the time she finished.

"Career fair at school was sick today, mum," he tried uselessly one day. "There were tons of cool jobs that I'd just love to have, like...working at a charity organization, or a non-profit law firm. Maybe I could write a book one day. Maybe own a restaurant?" He put extra emphasis on the last one.

"Those are hobbies, Harry," she said. He'd heard it before. He knew exactly what she was going to say next. He turned his focus to the ticking coming from the clock on the wall. The clock was big and boring and added to the house's immaculacy but Harry knew that under it was a giant, imperfect, pink handprint that Gemma had accidentally left there on Easter nine years ago. _Tick_. "Those aren't real jobs, you'll never be stable with one of those jobs. You can be an accountant and write a book on the side. And you cook for fun everyday. Why do you have to make a career out of it?" _Tock_.

"Because I like it." He felt like screaming. He stated it calmly instead. The last time he raised his voice he got smacked in the side of the head.

"But you'll never make it! Don't you understand, Harry? If you want one of those talent-required, jobs, you have to be the _best_ at what you do! And you're not the best! You make crêpes a couple times a week for breakfast and you think you can take over a restaurant? Win a prize, Harry, publish a book, make a charity club. Convince me, and maybe I'll let you."

"I want to _like_ my job, mum. I want to like my life." He sighed and wanted to cry. Actually he wanted to sob and pack his bags and move out and change his number so she wouldn't be able to contact him in thirty years when she needed someone to take care of her in her old age. He just wished that one time, _one time_ , she would tell him he _was_ the best.

"Don't be stupid, Harry. You're not supposed to like what you do, you're supposed to like the stability it gives you."

 

***

 

They go back and reclaim their spots on the floor in front of their seats and open their bottle of _White Zinfandel_. The snow outside is coming to a stop and the lady at the front announces they only have to wait another half hour. It's the eve of Christmas Eve and Harry was secretly hoping the plane would be delayed another half-day so he wouldn't have to spend the day with his family, but he realizes that's a very grim thought to have and he wouldn't say it out loud if his life depended on it. When he looks over at Zayn, though, it looks like he's thinking the same thing.

"So, you live in London?"

Harry shakes his head. "Cheshire. You?"

He sees Zayn narrow his eyes for a second before answering and he knows what he's thinking. _That's a long drive_. Harry's perfectly aware. "Bradford. But my sister’s in London and I'm seeing her first."

"Oh. Why'd she move away from your parents?"

"They didn't approve of what she wanted to do with her life. Everyone in my family has been either a doctor, an engineer, or some sort of scientist ever since I can remember and she suddenly wants to do art? Of course they didn't like that. So she saved up and took out loans and moved to London for art school."

"Nice! So your parents pushed you towards engineering?"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely. It helps that I'm good at it, though. I'm not unhappy. Waliyha was."

"Oh."

"What about you? How'd you save up to move to America to become a chef?"

"Prostitution."

Zayn's head jerks up.

"Kidding! Nothing wrong with that, though. I got a job at a local bakery when I was fourteen because I knew my mum wouldn't pay the full tuition for school in America. And the rest is an enormous debt that I owe the government. I also kind of didn't tell her I was going to culinary school until a few days before I left, so, there's that."

Zayn's eyes bulge when he smiles. "That's incredible. My parents would have stopped the plane. They probably saved the pilot's life or something so he'd have owed them a favour."

Harry laughs. "My mum tried. She actually was planning on following me to the airport - bet she had a speech prepared and everything - but I left at some ungodly hour in the morning and had to wait too long for an evening plane."

"Déjà vu?"

"Something like that."

Zayn lifts a finger and runs it down over the bridge of Harry's nose, thumb gliding over his bottom lip and stopping at the corner. "So what's your favourite thing to make?"

Harry considers the question. "Extra spicy ramen from those packets."

"Ha. Don't I know it."

"But really, I make a great chicken pesto pasta."

"Is that what you'd make for our first date?" The question shocks Harry and he looks up at Zayn. He's smiling and it looks very sad. Harry understands all too well.

"Do you like chicken?"

Zayn nods.

"Do you like pasta?"

Zayn nods again.

"Then yeah, you'd love it. I'd serve it with a white wine pesto sauce and I'd make créme brûlée for dessert."

"I'd probably come late. I'm not good with timing."

"Then I'll use a lower heat and cook it for longer."

"But don't worry, I'll bring a bottle of champagne to make up for it. Prosecco."

"Impressive. I hope it's not La Marca."

"You don't like La Marca?"

"Bitter and overrated."

"How about Cupcake?"

"Now you're talking."

"This all sounds so fancy. Chicken pasta and champagne."

"You don't like fancy?"

"Everyone likes a little bit of fancy. But I don't want to be one of those couples that sits across from each other at a table on each date." _One of those couples_.

"Fine,” Harry agrees because he’d probably eat grass if Zayn asked him to. “We'll shake things up. We'll sit on the living room floor with our backs against the couch. I have a very soft carpet."

"Why don't we just sit on the couch?"

"I have a hard time eating things on my lap."

"You serious?" Zayn raises his eyebrows and it’s terribly endearing.

"Dead serious. Always drop things all over myself. Horribly embarrassing. So we'll sit on the floor, with our plates on the coffee table. And we'll watch a movie."

"Dinner and a movie? You're growing more cliché by the minute."

"You've just now come to that realization?"

Zayn beams at Harry. It’s all very romantic. "So what movie then?"

"I'm partial to bittersweet dystopian films."

"Excuse me?"

"What?"

"I'm not sure those exist."

"Sure they do. You seen the movie _Her_?"

"Oh, come on. You like _those_ films?"

"What's wrong with _those_ films? They're thought provoking!"

"Sure, sure. ‘ _The age of technology makes one question what it means to be human_ ’. It's nothing you can't get out of a good action film."

"Oh, tell me you aren't into action films."

"Avengers all the way, baby." Zayn grins and Harry bets he has a superhero tattoo somewhere. He’d love to find it one day. He’d love to learn more about Zayn than four hours can offer, but, who said life was fair?

"We're going to have to come to a compromise, because I won't sit on my living room floor just to watch the Hulk toss Loki around like a rag doll."

"That's the best part! But fine- let's compromise. How about a thought provoking action film."

"Like...?"

"Like… _Now You See Me_. Have you seen it?"

"No, but I think I could manage that."

"Good."

"Good."

A serious expression suddenly takes over Zayn’s face and Harry tries to recall anything horribly wrong he might have said within the past few minutes.

"What? What is it?" He asks.

"I just realized. You lied to me, Harry."

"What?"

"You thought I wouldn't notice?"

"What are you talking about? What lie?" He could have accidentally lied about being distantly related to Orlando Bloom again. Which has only happened once before, in his defence.

"You said we would eat on the living room floor."

"We would!"

"But you also said we'd eat with our plates on the coffee table. You specifically said that."

"Well, yeah! Because I hate eating on my lap!"

"You _lied_."

"What?"

"Harry, unless your coffee table is only a foot tall, there's no way we'd be able to comfortably eat with our plates on it."

It takes a moment for Harry to realize Zayn's joking and he throws the box of cards at him, exhaling in relief.

"Come on, Harry, doesn't even take an engineer to figure that out." Zayn says around a toothy smile.

Harry shakes his head. "I swear, if you ever do something like that on our date, I'm gonna have to-"

"What? Kiss me to get me to shut up?"

"If that's what it takes."

Zayn's smile softens. “Then what?”

Harry’s heart jumps up and ricochets off the walls of his rib cage. He’s unsure whether or not Zayn is joking but he hopes he’s not. “Then we go to my bedroom.”

Zayn scoots closer so their sides are touching. “Yeah.”

“And we’d kiss against my door. I’d take off your shirt. Kiss your neck.”

"Here?" Zayn touches a finger to the spot under his ear.

"Here." Harry traces a line down over his Adam's apple with his knuckle. The tips of Zayn's ears go red.

“I’d kiss your chest, pay attention to all your tattoos. Can I do that, babe?”

Zayn nods, chest moving up and down with his breaths.

“Kiss your shoulders and down your arms, and even your hands. Can I do that Zayn?" Zayn nods, his hand twitching in his lap like he wants to bring it to Harry's mouth. "And I'd kiss down your side, taste your skin and leave marks so you could remember."

Zayn closes his eyes and when he says, "Yes," it comes out as a whisper.  "I want that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  Want take off your shirt too.  And your pants.  Want to kiss your thighs."

They're in the back of the room, away from the few other people traveling intercontinentally the day before Christmas, but Harry still makes sure that no one is close enough to see him blush. 

He wants to hold Zayn's jaw and kiss his cheek but when he moves to do so, he realizes Zayn's taken his hand and is idly stroking his knuckles. The lady at the front cuts him off when he opens his mouth to respond, her voice resonating through the room to inform them that the plane is here, the weather has calmed down, and they can now begin to board.

Zayn is staring at his knees when Harry looks at him. His breathing is still erratic and he’s still flushed and god, Harry wants to take him home and have a first date and a second and third and fourth.

They stand up and get in line, which is moving unprecedentedly fast. Zayn turns to Harry and says, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Zayn hesitates. Bites his lip. Takes a breath, as if they have all the time in the world. Then he starts on a ramble that Harry can barely decipher. "In any other situation I'd ask for your number and I'd bring champagne to our first date and take you to the park on our second and introduce you to my parents on the third and we would be the couple that everyone is jealous of because we'd wake each other up with kisses and donuts and we'd own weird pets—"

Harry feels unbearably heavy. "Do you promise this to every guy you talk to for four hours?" He jokes. Zayn doesn't play along.

"But, we just...met at the wrong time. The wrong flight."

There's a brief moment where Harry wants to argue and stomp his foot against the carpeted floor and say, "Then we'll MAKE it the right time." But he just nods dumbly because he understands better than anyone. It's not the right time for him either. He can barely support himself, let alone another person. He doesn't have insurance. He wants a pet but he's afraid he'd forget to feed it. He went to culinary school to feed himself with ninety-nine cent ramen and he doesn't know how to voluntarily stay with a single person for a long time because he's never done it. He can't go a day without thinking of a way to spite his mother and he's a saucier, for god's sake.

They walk into the tunnel connecting the airport to the plane and into the plane. Zayn's seat is in business class because he's a rich asshole who can afford it, so he stops a few steps in and says, "This is me."

He pushes the handle to his carry on down.

Harry nods and stares at Zayn. They're holding up the line and someone coughs impatiently behind them. "Well. Bye, Zayn."

"Bye, Harry. Happy Christmas." He's so nice.  The reminder of it is almost cruel.  Harry's mother would love him.

Harry turns on his heel and walks to his part of the plane.

When he gets to his window seat, he heaves his carry-on up onto the holder, and squeezes his way past the large, dark-skinned woman in the aisle seat, heart suddenly beating fast. He sits down in the uncomfortably tight space and clutches his face in his hands. His breath comes out shaky and uneven. His hands shake as he furiously blinks back tears.

Oh, god. 

"Hello and good evening, I'm your flight attendant, Ash Bobbins..."

Oh god.

"Sorry for the delay, but fortunately, flying is safe now. It won't be after tomorrow, though, so say goodbye to New York for a few weeks at least, because you'll have a hard time finding a flight back in this storm..."

 _Oh, god_. His mother was right—he's unstable and unhappy and doesn't know what he's fucking doing with his life and has no motivation and no inspiration and not enough talent and not enough capabilities and he found someone that made him smile for the first time in god knows how many months and just let him slip from his fucking fingers and he's in his mid twenties and has fourteen fucking dollars in his bank account and he lives in a studio apartment that has rats under the kitchen sink most of the time and fuck, _fuck_ —

"Harry?" He looks up from where he's holding his head in between his knees and there's Zayn, standing in the aisle by the large woman. Harry feels incredibly awkward, is reminded of the feeling of telling somebody goodbye and then walking in the same direction as them for a few more moments.

"Um, sorry," Zayn tells the woman and looks at Harry, almost apologetic that she'll have to listen to him. He looks slightly flustered and very embarrassed, wringing his hands awkwardly.

"I just...realized I never got your last name."

"Oh. Styles."

"Well mine's Malik." Harry feels a surge of hope plant itself in his chest and blossom into something beautiful as he smiles and blinks away the misery from seconds before.

"That's good to know."

"Yeah," Zayn agrees.

Zayn licks his lips and appears to do a little hop in his spot before saying, "Okay. Bye, then!" and walking back to his seat.

Harry sits very still in his seat before he realizes he has an unquenchable urge to run a marathon. He fiddles with his hands and tugs on a loose thread on his shirt and fetches a book out of his bag to distract him from himself. Reading proves itself to be useless so he takes out his phone. He unlocks it and freezes, and then laughs and laughs and laughs, because that stupid picture of Oprah with a beard is now his home screen.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to my betas iggy jenner for the oprah with a beard idea and for keeping the gayness accurate


End file.
